The One
by Polly Lynn
Summary: Summary: "There's something going on with Beckett. With Beckett and him, if he's honest. But he's not honest. Day-to-day, he's anything but honest about him and her and everything that is definitely not going on between them." Two-shot set after "The Mistress Always Spanks Twice" (2 x 16). Sequel to "Count Me Out" and "Can't." NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The One

WC: ~1100, this chapter

Rating: M

Summary: "There's something going on with Beckett. With Beckett and him, if he's honest. But he's not honest. Day-to-day, he's anything but honest about him and her and everything that is definitely not going on between them." Two-shot set after "The Mistress Always Spanks Twice" (2 x 16).

A/N: Another kind of sequel to "Count Me Out" and "Can't." Two-shot. Second chapter is M.

* * *

There's something going on with Beckett. With Beckett and him, if he's honest. But he's not honest. Day-to-day, he's anything but honest about him and her and everything that is definitely not going on between them.

But it's worse tonight. Here. Everything is worse here.

Jenny picked the place, and it's terrible. Thumping, repetitive music and watered down drinks. They've been standing around for better than an hour shouting at each other, and they've only just scored a sticky, teetering table. A cracked, curved banquette that's too small for the five of them, looking out over a seething dance floor.

The place is _terrible_, but Jenny isn't, and there's an unspoken agreement to play nice. Not to scare her off now that Ryan has manned up and brought her around.

Esposito is strutting a little. He is, too. It's just . . . irresistible. Jenny's cute as hell, and Ryan is so fucking _smitten. _It's a little sickening. Intoxicating, too. So, yeah, they're both flirting with Jenny and giving Ryan shit.

And Beckett shuts them down. She laughs outright when Esposito tries for smooth. She counters their stories with her own and makes the two of them—Esposito _and _him—look like 24/7 idiots. She cuts them both and props up Kevin with sweet, silly reminisces, and everyone laughs. Jenny gasps and giggles behind her hand. Ryan rubs her shoulders and goes pink. He smiles hard and curls his arm tight around her, and it's normal.

Ryan's the baby, Jenny's the new girl, and this is what friends do. And they're friends. Whatever is or isn't going on with them—between him and Beckett—they're friends now, and this is normal.

It should be normal, but there's something going on.

There's a little too much edge to all of it. Not just her, but for all of them. It's too sharp, the way Esposito feigns putting the moves on Jenny. To his own over-the-top charm and how quick Beckett is to sneer. It's all a little off. A little too brittle.

He thinks at first it's Lanie. The fact that she begged off. That Beckett has to be the girl, and it doesn't sit well with her. Not that she doesn't like Jenny. If there's one person in the entire world that _everyone _likes, it must be Jenny. But it's not like the two of them have a lot in common. Her and Beckett.

He thinks that must be it, but round follows round, and the theory doesn't hold up. Beckett's too quiet, then too loud. She's trying a little too hard and everything breaks apart. Everything is brittle, and it's not exactly about Jenny.

He thinks then it's him. That he's just a fifth wheel. The thought drags at him. The idea that they're closing ranks. That he's overstepped again and they're putting him in his place. It's abruptly depressing.

It doesn't seem possible, but the watered down drinks must be hitting him. It's too late now, though. A surly kid who _has _to be underage slams down another round, one by one. Beer foams up and over the lip of Esposito's bottle and whatever Jenny's pink thing is sloshes over the rim and adds to the general stickiness. Castle blinks down at the tumbler in his own hand and wonders when he switched to scotch. When Beckett did. _Bad _scotch for both of them, neat.

He steals a look at her. Beckett. She's scanning the crowd. Her eyes narrow and roam over the space. She's taking it all in like she's working, even though her next drink is half gone already. The one that just got here is half gone, and it's not like her at all. None of this is like her.

She's not even bothering to smile when she lobs an insult at Esposito now. At _him _when he tries to jump back in. To lighten things, because they're friends and it's a big deal for Ryan. And it's normal.

But it's not. Normal is long gone and there's something going on. Jenny's brow furrows, and even Ryan's smile is dimming a little. It's uncomfortable, and he wonders if he should go.

His phone buzzes then. Beckett jumps as his jacket rattles against the narrow inch of duct-taped vinyl between them. She gives him a sour look, then a guilty one as he thrusts it in her direction and Alexis's face fills the lit-up screen.

He leans over the table to excuse himself. Jenny smiles and Ryan murmurs something he can't hear. Espo looks away. He takes an uncomfortable breath and starts in again on his partner. He tries.

Castle straightens, and they're turning away already. He's out of the picture.

Beckett slips out the far side of the booth to let him pass. He steadies himself. A fist wrapped around his phone pressing to the brick behind her, and something happens between them. _Something_.

There's no room at all. She presses her back to a pillar, but there's nowhere to go. His body brushes hers—shoulder, chest, thigh—and their fingers catch. Hers and his on the far side of everyone. They tangle together and suddenly it's just the two of them, wrapped up all the times nothing happened. It's him and her alone and far from this terrible place.

He's all but kissing her. She's all but kissing him. And there it is. Every last thing that's not going on between them. Every time it didn't count.

The phone buzzes again. It's in his hand, low at her hip. Far too low to be decent, and he expects her to push him away. He expects a sharp look. An embarrassed flush and something unkind. But her head dips to one side, and she looks up at him through thick lashes. Theres's a flash of white sinking into the fullness of her lower lip and half a smile.

"Better get that."

She murmurs it low and his eyes close with the weight of desire.

"Yeah. Better."

His gaze flicks back to the table, but the other three take no notice. It's none of their concern. She lifts an eyebrow at him. A look that says she knows. It's just the two of them, alone and together, hovering here.

He peels himself away somehow. She lets his fingers go with one last tug. He turns away fast. Faster than the bad scotch allows, and he stumbles, shouting into the phone for Alexis to wait. That he can't hear, but it'll be ok whatever it is. He bunches his shoulders to his ears. He twists and shoves and makes his way across the dance floor somehow.

He turns back. Just at the edge, he turns back and she's still watching.

She's pressed against the pillar with her head tipped back.

She's watching.

* * *

A/N: Second chapter is written. Just editing. Up later today or tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The One

WC: ~1900, this chapter, ~3000 total

Rating: M

Summary: "There's something going on with Beckett. With Beckett and him, if he's honest. But he's not honest. Day-to-day, he's anything but honest about him and her and everything that is definitely not going on between them." Two-shot set after "The Mistress Always Spanks Twice" (2 x 16).

A/N: Another kind of sequel to "Count Me Out" and "Can't." Two-shot.

* * *

Alexis is fine. It was a crisis twenty minutes ago, but it's over before he's had a chance to shout anything useful over the din. He listens to her usual do-it-yourself pep talk and tells her he loves her. That he's proud of her, and he is. Here especially, he is. She thanks him, and he wonders why. It's been a weird night, and he doesn't feel like he's good for much. Like he belongs anywhere.

His head is pounding as he fights his way back into the club from the strange patio that's really just pallets thrown down inside a makeshift fence poking out into the alley. There's a knot of drunk girls spilling out the door just as he's trying to make his way back in, and it's messy. They're young and shrill and falling down. They're clutching at his jacket and pushing past him and he'd almost rather not do this.

He'd almost rather turn around and go, but something tugs him on. _Her. _Of course it's her, and he tells himself it's because they're friends. They're all friends and he has to say goodbye to Jenny at least, even if he'd rather not fight against the current any more tonight.

He closes his eyes. He counts to ten in the shadows. In what passes for quiet here.

They flick open again and she's there. Three steps away. It stills him. Roots him to the floor, even though he's almost expecting it. The least likely thing in the last place she belongs, but something's been going on all night. Something's been going on for a lot longer than that, and when she closes the distance—when her palms land on his shoulders and burning fingers sweep up his neck—he's almost expecting it.

Her mouth tears at his as they stumble through a door he didn't know was there. He kicks it shut and feels the cheap wood splinter. He hasn't done this in a lifetime. It's a filthy bathroom in a terrible club, and he has her up body up against the door, because there's no chance in hell that the lock actually works.

She tugs and nips and rolls against him. Her skin on his. Nails and teeth and the harsh burn of scotch. He's half out of his clothes. She's quick with her hands. Ferocious. More than usual.

Not that anything is usual.

This doesn't happen. It isn't happening. It doesn't count.

It sweeps over him. Sudden, wild sadness that's more than watered-down drinks. He fights back, as fierce as she is and then some. He peels plain white cotton down her shoulders to her elbows. He traps her there, arms splayed against the door and her hips writhing against him.

A dim bulb swings on a bare wire, throwing mad shadows over her skin and it's too much. She's too beautiful and he feels too much. The words come. A groan against the swell of her breast.

"What is this?" He uses his teeth. Too hard and she gasps. She pushes closer as he drags punishing fingers down her ribs to her waist. He travels on, down and down. He splays his hand wide and tugs at her thigh, insistent 'till she draws it up and hooks a calf behind his knee. "What is this, Kate?"

He arcs his hips up again and again and again. Need and want pressing into her. Seeping through their clothes. He wants to understand. He wants to make _her _understand, whether or not he knows himself, and this is the only thing that's ever easy for them. He feels the heat of her mouth at his throat. Her lips working there frantically. It takes him too long to realize they're words. That it's some kind of answer.

"Her." He hears it finally. Plaintive. Angry. Over and over she says it, and it pulls him back in surprise.

"Jenny." He stares at her. Dips his head and chases when she won't meet his eyes. He's shocked. All but speechless, though he has to know. "_Jenny?"_

"What . . ." Her eyes are huge in the flickering light. There's something there. Something she's hiding—guarding like a cornered tiger, but she wants something, too. She's hiding and she wants him to see all the same. "What is it about _her_?"

It's out between them, and he knows now what it is behind her eyes. Loneliness and the fear of never. That it's not for her. This thing that twines all around Kevin and Jenny. That draws them all like moth to flame. Pulls them close and burns them. That's what it is. Fear that none of it's for her.

He wants to tell her so many things. That he's lonely by her side. He's lonely with her like this. Every time it doesn't count. He wants to tell her he's so far beyond falling in love that he forgets sometimes that he's not with her every second of the day. That she's not his.

He wants to tell her, but he's afraid. That this will be the thing that breaks the two of them. The thing that steals even this away. He answers instead. Words he writes between strict lines.

"She's the one." He kisses her. Slow and scorching and deep. He trails his hands down her body and follows with his mouth. His cheek drags over her belly. She rises up on her toes, hisses his name and arches closer to his mouth. His hands.

"For him . . . Kevin." He chokes it out. He knows he's a coward. He knows what he's doing, even as he goes on. He casts words into the dirty, flickering light. "For her. . . There's no one else."

He's on his knees now. His fingers catch the waist of her jeans. He skims them low, tugging is black lace along behind. Over hips and down thighs 'till there's enough bare for him to taste. He presses kisses light against her. His tongue darts out and retreats, again, again, again.

"No one else in the world," he breathes, and it's not quite lost in her long, anguished moan and the tear of her fingers at his hair as her body quakes against him. "No one, Kate."

He rises. He drags his skin over hers. Offers her the taste of herself, and she takes it gladly. Hungrily, as she peels her own body off the door.

She pulls him with her. She backs into the sink and leads him along. She kisses him like she's desperate. Like she's ashamed of wanting and too far gone to care. She kisses him like this isn't the last place in the world they ought to be.

Their hands work together. Their bodies and mouths and the tangle of nonsense words that fly past each other in the dim, flickering light.

Her shirt is bunched underneath her. Draping behind her hips, and thank God there's just a blank expanse of scarred wall where a mirror should be. He's naked enough. Pushing inside her and holding her up. He bends her back. Kisses down the long stretch of her throat and feels her breath struggling in and out. He folds his arms around her and steadies them both as she pulls him nearer still.

They fall into silence. Drawn-out movement. Fast and slow, frantic and patient. He can barely stand it. The difference in this that he wants so badly to put a name to. Words he should be brave enough to say.

He feels her hands in his hair, coaxing for once. Not demanding. Ordering. Urging and asking, instead. He slides his lips willingly up and and along. Across her jaw and over her cheek until her forehead is pressed to his. He feels her eyes flutter open. Lashes tangling with his own and he startles back. She holds him fast, though. Just too close to see as her thumbs run in parallel down his cheeks.

She whispers his name. Curls him closer still with her legs wrapped tight around him, and they're falling slowly. Achingly, and he's the silent one. Not a single word edgewise as his name streams out of her end to end until there's no more left. No more breath and she's shivering.

He moves to cover her. To put her back together, but she stills him.

"Stay."

He barely hears it. He's not sure he's meant to hear it, but he nods. He mouths _Yes_ against her shoulder, and she leans heavier into him.

Time slips away. It rushes back again. Unpleasant. There's a fumbling at the door. A rattling of the knob that—thank God—doesn't really work, and she snaps out. "_Occupied!_"

He snorts. Tickles the crook of her neck with it. She's in command, even like this. Even half naked and spent. It's instantaneous. A retreat from the door and silence. Relative silence.

She pushes back and gives him a small, twisted smile. The spell isn't quite broken. It unravels, though. Her skin prickles in earnest now. She's cold, and this is . . . this place is awful. Terrible.

He eases her down from the sink. He whispers _Sorry_ as he draws her shirt up and over dark indentations. Teeth and finger marks. Ghosts. She shakes her head. Trails her own hands in a careful, winding path. Scratches and blossoming color cutting across his ribs, too, as she helps him shrug back into his clothes.

"Everyone?" He's worried suddenly. They've been gone forever, haven't they?

They'll wonder. They'll all wonder, and he's doesn't want to share this fragile, complicated, nameless thing. He can't bear the thought of excuses. How they'll sound. Hers. His own, sour in his mouth.

"Gone," she says, a soothing hand on his shoulder like maybe she understands. Like maybe she wants to keep this just for the two of them, broken as it is. "Just us."

It catches him. Something in her voice. They way her fingers clench and unclench and she forces herself to push the last of his buttons home. It catches him.

"Just us," he repeats. He dips his head. His mouth hovers over hers, not quite touching. Waiting for something. Permission. Defiance or something to push against, but it never comes. She tips her chin up a fraction. Their lips whisper together and part.

She slides around him. Navigates boundaries suddenly there between them. She's shy now, with her hand on the door. She's shy. Looking back over her shoulder, asking if he's ready. He's not. He'll never be ready for the way this ends every time.

She knows. She sees, and her shoulders sag in apology.

It's worse. He propels himself forward. Crowds into her body and whispers _Ok. It__'__s ok. _

It's a lie, but she lets him tell it. She lets him glide past her through the narrow gap into the dim, pulsing hallway. Getting out. Getting them both out. It's all he can think to do, but she stays. She's in the doorway with the flickering bulb behind her. He has to catch her hand.

He says her name, pleading now.

_Beckett_.

He tugs her forward. She stumbles into him. One last moment where she presses against him. Draws something out of him and into herself.

_Just us_.

Her lips work silently against the skin just inside his collar. Just a moment before her spine straightens and she strides ahead.

_Just us,_ he whispers back, and he wonders if she meant him to hear.


End file.
